


Starch

by tosca1390



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:24:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The idea that she had almost lost a chance she did not know she wanted pricks her deep inside.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starch

*

When it comes to Tony, everything is personal. Their interactions are colored with a sexual tension she has never been able to shake, and that everyone and their mother has commented on, which annoys the hell out of her. And especially now, after Jeanne and the nearly year-long web of lies, the idea that she had almost lost a chance she did not know she wanted pricks her deep inside.

She needles him more than anyone else because she has a deep, innate sense that he could be _better_ than what he is now, with all his trumpeting about conquests and clothes and cars, but he will not commit to that seriousness, except in the most extreme moments. She likes him, as anyone likes their partner at work. Everyone and their brother ( _mother? Father? Which relative was it?_ ) has commented on their supposed sexual tension, but she thinks that Tony would have _done_ something about it at this point, despite the undercover mission Jenny sent him on.

In any case, somewhere along the line, the smell of starch becomes an aphrodisiac to Ziva.

Specifically, it is the clean scent from Tony’s meticulous clothes, which she knows he gets dry-cleaned at a special Mom-and-Pop store; again, he does like to brag about his clothes. Why shouldn’t he? He looks good in them—

Which is beside the point, of course.

In the elevator, it is the worst. He always stands next to her, close enough to brush his sleeved arm against hers, and the scent wafts over; her toes curl, the back of her neck flushes, and she imagines tucking her fingers into the stiff, starched collar of his button-down shirt, gripping tight and pulling him in close. She wants to wrinkle his suit and have him _like_ it, she wants him to _want_ to keep it wrinkled, as a reminder of her—

He’ll then make a crack about something, and she’ll snip right back, and the starch smell slips into her lungs as she breathes, and there’s something uniquely _Tony_ about it too—

It is distracting, obviously. She needs to do something about it, before she becomes completely unreasonable, and people begin to notice.

Today, it’s a cold November day, and she has worn a cashmere sweater that is too thin; though the heat is on in the office, she still shivers every so often. Tony is dressed up today, with a tie as well as a blazer and button-down; he had to go to court today, and has looked grouchy since he returned. It is not a good look for him; too serious, too sad, and one she has seen in flashes too often after the last year.

She watches him idly all afternoon, grey light shading the planes of his face. If the agents at Mossad could see her now, she is sure they would be horrified, but somehow, she does not care. Perhaps her time at NCIS has made her soft; she likes to think she is just a better-rounded person, now that she can feel the heart she hadn’t been sure she possessed. 

Gibbs sends them down to check on something in Abby’s lab as the sun crosses below the trees, the sunset faint and sickly-pale. Tony grumbles all the way to the elevator, a hard clench to his jaw. 

“Court is a waste of time,” he mutters, crossing his arms; Ziva can fairly _hear_ the fabric fold against the press and starch. 

“A necessary evil,” she comments lightly as the elevator pings, and the doors slide open. “Civilian or military?”

He lets her go in first, following close behind; she breathes in as the doors close, and starch combined with Tony’s sandalwood cologne fills her nostrils, and her skin flushes. “Military. And it’s nothing like _A Few Good Men_ , which is disappointing. I’d love to yell at Tom Cruise. Like he could play a military man anyway.”

She rolls her eyes as the elevator hums to life. “I want the truth,” she says, a gentle bite to her tone; quoting movies he has made her watch is a foolproof way to cheer him up.

“You can’t handle the truth,” he snaps back lightly, a smirk curling his lips.

She watches him for a moment before her toes curl, and she makes her decision. Taking a deep breath, she presses the emergency stop, the jolt echoing in her knees and eliciting a yelp out of Tony. 

“What? What?” he asks, confusion shading his face as the blue emergency lights flicker on. 

She smiles, a faint enigmatic curve she knows infuriates him. “Stay still,” she orders him, voice soft as she crosses to him. 

He backs up until he is pressed against the steel wall, looking a little skittish. “You’re picking _now_ to kill me with your secret ninja skills? I’m already having a hell of a day,” he jokes faintly, muscles tense under the fall of his suit. 

Reaching up, she curls her fingers into his shirt collar and tugs down gently, their mouths a breath’s width apart. Her body grazes against his; the smell of starch and perfume collides in the air around them. 

“What about rule number twelve?” he murmurs, his gaze more dark than green at this moment. 

In answer, she kisses him in the way she has wanted to for a long time, his mouth open and warm against hers, sending tingles down her spine that she hasn’t felt for years. His hand falls flat on the middle of her back, his callused fingers catching on the smooth of her sweater as he slides down to the small of her back. She shuts her eyes and breathes it in, the reality of her distraction, the slick-slip of his tongue against hers. 

Her fingers twist in his shirt; she can almost see the wrinkles in his shirt, the coil in the fabric running all the way down. All she really wants to do is rip it off, buttons and all, but she thinks that might be too raunchy for the elevator at work. 

His fingers slide under her sweater and directly onto the bare skin of her hip, tracing the curve of the bone. She murmurs softly into his mouth, sliding her hands down his torso, under the stiff cotton to his warm, yielding skin. She remembers the time Tony gave McGee his shirt, and she watched him button his new shirt about as slowly as possible. His eyes had fallen on her more than once then.

As his free hand weaves into her hair, she smirks, nipping at his bottom lip before she pulls away, taking deep, measured breaths. She is nearly overwhelmed by the starch in the air, her hands gripping his sides. “More later,” she says, voice low.

Tony raises his brows, a slow, disbelieving smile quirking his lips. “Later? Why not now? The time is now,” he says huskily, chasing her mouth with his. 

She kisses him once—twice—three times more before she slips her hands from him and ducks away to the other side of the elevator. “Gibbs will start looking for us,” she said, smoothing her sweater down and praying her skin cools down before Abby sees her. 

“There are worse things,” he mutters, trying in vain to smooth down his shirt.

She restarts the elevator with a smirk, licking her lips and tasting the roast beef sub he had for lunch. A faint imprint of starch lingers where his body pressed to hers, and she is excited for _later_.

*

_Later_ ends up being midnight. They do not get out of the office until ten that night, and despite heated looks from Tony, she does not immediately follow him home. She likes the idea of the chase and the tease, and besides, she wants to shower. 

The light in his apartment is still on when she parks across the street; she wraps herself in her wool coat as she hurries across the street. She hesitates only a moment before she buzzes his apartment. 

“About time.”

She rolls her eyes. “Let me up, Tony.”

“I don’t know, you kept me waiting an _awful_ long time—“

“Tony,” she sing-songs in a warning note, hands stuffed into her pockets. The air smells faintly of snow; she predicts flurries at most. 

He huffs through the intercom. “ _Fine_.”

When she reaches his floor, coming up the curved stairs, he’s waiting in the hall right outside his door, still in his button-down and black trousers. She can see the wrinkles at the neck and shoulders, and a smile curves her mouth. 

“You did not change,” she says as a greeting, coming up flush to him. 

He shrugs with a wide, bright smile. “You seemed to like the shirt,” he retorts with ease, but he hesitates for a moment before he reaches up, fingers curving around to rest on the nape of her neck; his thumb lands on her pulse. 

She tilts her head back into his touch, meeting his eyes. “Going to let me in?” she teases softly. 

His other hand cups the curve of her hip, tugging her into his body. “I don’t have a clue what got into you, Zee-vah,” he murmurs, mouth drifting close to hers. “But don’t change a thing.”

She leans into him as she closes the distance between their mouths, nearly kissing the words right from him. Her fingers dig into the warm cotton of his shirt; she can smell starch and sandalwood and the faint scent of pizza Tony always has near him, which is odd but comforting. 

The hand on her neck cradles the curve of her skull, fingers twirled into her thick, straight hair, and he side-steps them into his apartment, kissing her with the same warm intensity he teased her with. She kicks the door shut behind them, unbuttoning his shirt with slow, deliberate motions. 

Lips trail across the line of her jaw, a hand sliding up through her coat opening to her ribs. “Taking your sweet time there, Ninja Girl,” he murmurs against her skin. 

Tony has never been patient; she is not sure why she thought sex would be any different. “Perhaps I am enjoying the reveal.”

He laughs huskily against her jawbone, peeling off her coat; it falls to the floor with a heavy thunk. “You’ve seen it before.”

“Not like this,” she says quietly, sliding the shirt from his shoulders, running her fingers over the lines of his muscles, through the thick hair of his chest. 

His fingers land on the hem of her shirt, tugging it over her head, interrupting her explorations. “Yeah. Not like this,” he repeats. 

His apartment is warm, yet she still shivers as her skin is bared to the air, her stomach and arms rippling in goosebumps. Absently, she wishes she’d worn something a little sexier, like a black lace bra or something, but when she sees the open, hungry look in Tony’s eyes, she thinks she has done just fine. 

“You think we’ll talk through it?” he asks with a grin, pulling her into his bare chest, meeting her skin to skin. 

“It?” she asks dryly, shaking her hair out as her arms circle around his broad shoulders. 

“While we make wild, passionate love,” he adds, fingers playing against the groove of her spine. 

She kisses the hard edge of his jaw. “Wild?”

His grin reverberates on the thin skin of her temple. “Oh yeah. It’ll be wild, and we’re going to talk,” he teases, backing up through the outskirts of the living room, his fingers dancing over the clasp of her bra. 

She kicks off her shoes as they walk, stumbling into him. “Only because you love the sound of your own voice,” she retorts, hands going for his pants button. 

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious,” he says, voice laced with sarcasm as he peels her bra from her skin; her nipples peak in the cooler air. 

She bites her lip, the zipper sliding down his pants with a low hum. “I like to think so,” she murmurs, giving him a moment to kick his slacks off. She uses the moment to slide off her jeans, leaving them both only in underwear as they reach the threshold of the bedroom. 

Halting, she looks around, taking in the pleasant cream walls, the navy blue bedding, the dark wood furniture; it’s actually very nice, and she almost feels bad for being surprised. “I like your room,” she says after a moment, glancing at him. 

He smirks, grabbing her by the waist with his broad hands and pulling her into the room, the wood floors cool under her feet. “You thought it would be ugly, didn’t you?”

Rolling her eyes, she kisses him to shut him up, fingers curled in the waistband of his boxers. She tugs down as he presses her knees into the bed, and she falls back with a soft yelp of surprise, landing width-wise across the bed. She props herself up on her elbows as he steps out of his boxers and settles himself over her, his forearms bracketing her head, his hips pressing into her pelvis. A curl of desire settles in her stomach, and she cannot help the smile on her mouth, echoed in his eyes. 

“This doesn’t feel as weird as I thought it would,” he says softly, kissing along the lines of her cheekbones. 

She snorts, one hand sliding between their bodies to stroke his cock, already hard against her thigh. “Murdering the mood, Tony,” she mutters, tilting her head back as his mouth trails down her throat, teeth skating along the line of her jugular. 

“Actually, it’s _killing_ the mood, but same intent,” he says with a groan, pushing his hips into her touch. 

Smirking, she rolls him onto his back and straddles him, her hair falling straight and smooth over her shoulders. “You thought this would be weird?” she murmurs, fingers sliding over the head as she leans over him. 

His eyelids flutter as he makes a deep, gruff sound in her throat. “I’m an idiot,” he mumbles, sliding his hands over her thighs, tugging on her underwear. 

“Finally, something sinks in,” she murmurs, kissing his collarbones and sliding her hand over his ribs. “But you know it is not true anymore.”

“Why not?” he asks with an easy smile. 

“Because I do not sleep with idiots,” she says. She then bites at his shoulder lightly, leaving the mark she wants to see in the morning. 

He groans achingly, his fingers slipping into her underwear and between her thighs; she’s already wet, has been since she got her fingers into his shirt and his lips on hers, and she sighs his name. Her fingers stroke the length of his cock as he begins to stroke her in kind, hips moving in tandem. 

“I’ll never be an idiot again,” he says hoarsely, pupils blown in the dim light of the bedroom. His free hand draws invisible lines on her body, fingernails skating over her stomach and breasts, finding the faded scars from old missions and battles.

Her laugh hitches in her throat as his thumb brushes her clit. “Let’s bet on that one,” she jokes, voice breathy as sparks shot through her limbs and over her skin. 

He sits up and rolls them over once more, twisting their bodies to face the correct direction on the bed. The weight of his body on hers is comforting and leaves a warm yearning in her stomach that resonates deep inside. She parts her legs for him, toes curling into the comforter as his fingers work smoothly inside her, his thumb circling her clit. 

“Why do you have to be on top?” she grumbles breathlessly, sweat beading along her hairline as she arches her hips into his touch. 

His chest rumbles against hers in a chuckle. “I’m trying to savor the moment. Shut up,” he says, affection heavy in his tone. He kisses her quiet, mouth gentle as it slants over hers. 

She shuts her eyes and slides her fingers into his short hair, and soon his forearms are bracing his weight, and he’s inside her in a slow, teasing thrust that leaves her breathless and wanting. His mouth settles on her cheek as he breathes in deeply; she can feel his fingers curling into her hair, splayed out on the pillow. For once, the words between them fall short, and she is not sure she has had a better feeling; she makes a soft noise of want into his ear, and he begins to move within her. 

Something about this feels _right_ , as if a puzzle she had not known she was solving had finally fallen into place. He is attentive and affectionate, his mouth always on some part of her skin, moaning her name. She is overwhelmed by the feel and smell of him, the reality of it all causing an odd disparity in her brain; she has walked this path before with him, under the cover of pretense, but there had been an underlying sense of realness. Now that she has it all, and he’s saying _her_ name in a moan, not an assumed one, the pieces all click together. 

Afterwards, he slides them underneath his smooth cotton sheets and curls his body behind hers, his hand possessively flat on her stomach. She shuts her eyes and smiles, listening as he breathes in against her hair, his fingertips light on her skin. 

“Why now?” he asks softly against the soft skin of her neck. 

_Because the time is never right, and this is the closest we will get_ , she thinks, eyes focusing on the trail of clothes down the hall. Golden light spills into the hall from the kitchen, shadowing the shirt collapsed stiffly on the floor. 

_Because you need to let Jeanne go, and let me in again._

“Zee-vah?” he murmurs, lips warm on her shoulder blade. 

_Because I love you, but I do not know whether I will ever be able to say it._

She cannot say any of those, of course. Instead, she slips from his grasp and pads out of the bed amidst vocal protests. 

“Come on! What’d I do?” he calls, sitting up in bed. “I thought it was good!”

She plucks his shirt from the floor and slips it on, smiling faintly at the feel of starched cotton, still warm from his body. Warmth settles in a wide expanse in her middle, and she nearly feels like skipping back to him, but opts for a sway, still buttoning as she slides back into his bed, meeting his wide, confused gaze. 

“I like that you starch your clothes,” she says simply. “It smells nice.”

His lips quirk upwards, and he slides an arm over her waist, pulling her into his body. “Is that all? If I thought all I had to do was starch my shirts to get you into bed, I would have done it the first night we met,” he teases.

She tilts her mouth up to press against his briefly. “It _was_ good, not that you needed me to tell you that,” she says softly.

He smirks fully, stretching his arms over his head. “Of course it was,” he said smugly.

When she slaps his chest and he winces and laughs, as if they were in the office, and he then kisses her long and deep, she knows rule number twelve need not apply. Gibbs will just have to deal with it, she supposes. 

And McGee’s next novel is going to be a masterpiece, if she and Tony have anything to do with it. 

*


End file.
